One day, Greg takes a soft leather knapsack down from a shelf in the spacious hall closet and hands it to Willow.

She puts the mug of blood she has just warmed down on the kitchen table so that she can take the knapsack in both hands. “What is this for?” The words fly out of her mouth so quickly that they dance together in confused patterns. Four little dreidls, all spun together.

Greg has no trouble understanding her. He replies, his words only a tad slower than hers: “We’re going on a hike.”

A hike? Willow hasn’t the slightest clue what Greg is talking about. She has forgotten what a lot of words mean, because they never use them here.

“A walk, on a trail,” Greg elaborates. He picks up the mug of blood and holds it to his lips.

“A walk,” Willow repeats. “On a trail.”

When Greg puts the drained mug down, a thin sheen of red coats the dark skin around his mouth. Willow does not shudder.

“Yes,” Greg says. He takes out a small book, and Willow must restrain the urge to laugh: it is a normal hiker’s guide, to the Adirondacks no less, with an ISBN number and price, too. Greg flips the book open to a page with the corner folded and reads from it. “Four point two miles uphill, not steep, three point eight miles downhill.”

So it’s steeper going down, then. Willow files this all away. “Why are we going?” she asks. There is no point in arguing the fact that they are, indeed, going. Greg has made up his mind.

“Tomorrow,” Greg says. “In the closet in your room there are warm clothes.”

“Greg, it won’t take more than one day to hike seven miles,” Willow observes. “It won’t even take the whole day.” Especially not at the pace they can go.

“We’ll be walking… normally,” Greg says. By normally, he means the way they don’t bother to walk anymore, the way people walk when they are not here. “And it’s almost October, and this book is an Adirondacks hiking book, so we’ll be hiking in the Adirondacks.”

“Greg!” Willow exclaims. “We’re in California, not New York…” She trails off at his level stare. “Aren’t we?”

“We’re anywhere and everywhere,” Greg tells her. “Remember, this place is cradled in the Hands of the Goddess.”

Willow knows, and sighs. She can feel it in the air.

June 17th, 2008; Los Angeles, California.

Faith gasps and nearly spills the caramel frappucino she is making all over herself, for there at the counter is Willow.

Willow! Willow is there. After a year of being lost, Willow is there, and Faith is the one to find her. Perhaps this will gain her Cordelia’s trust; perhaps this will stop Fred from shying away whenever Faith looks at her.

It never occurs to Faith that perhaps Willow does not want to be found.

Willow looks up from her bag and lets go of her wallet. Her mouth opens in a silent O, and for a moment all that she and Faith can do is stand there and stare at each other.

Faith is drinking in the sight of Willow. She looks good, but… different. Strange. She is wearing a pale blue tank top and black pants, and her hair is long and slightly wavy and falls past her waist. The hair at the nape of her neck is tied into a loose thick braid and tossed over her shoulder to hang down her chest. She looks ethereal, unreal, and very, very, strange.

Faith cannot quite put her finger on what it is about Willow that gives her the wiggins. Willow does certainly look different. She looks like a picture in a coloring book, an unfinished one, in which only the hair and eyes have been colored in. Her skin is pale, almost translucent, and far lighter than the baby-blue tank top she sports. And her hair is dark, so dark it is nearly black, except for where the sun glints off of it, and there it is a bloody red. Her eyes are the same green-hazel Faith remembers, but there are shadows of things lurking behind them.

“Hey, lady! Can I get my latte?” a man interrupts from behind Willow. Both women—for that is what they finally are—jump, and Willow takes the frappucino that Faith hastily caps and walks back to the table in the corner, where Bill Gates sits, waiting.

Faith works quickly—she has only ten more minutes on shift—and nearly has a panic attack when the man Willow has been sitting with gets up and takes his briefcase, ready to go. Faith does not doubt that Willow will leave with him, and then where will she be? To have caught a glimpse of Willow, the one everyone has been searching for, only to have her get away again?—but no. Willow shakes her head at the man and stays where she is, at the table in the corner. She turns to look out the window and fiddles nervously with a loose string coming unraveled from her shoulderbag and waits.

Ten minutes later Faith whips off her apron and wipes her sticky hands on a towel. In the back of the Starbucks, where there is a bathroom for the workers and a sort of locker-room too, she glances nervously in the mirror and straightens her hair a bit. Then she takes of the green Starbucks shirt and dons her own red-and-pink one. It fits her like a second skin, and for a moment, Faith feels unsure of how it looks on her. Then she steps out.

Willow is still waiting at the table in the corner. The string she was fiddling with is nowhere to be seen, and the bag looks as good as new. Faith shakes her head and hesitates by the empty chair.

Willow looks up with a quick twist of her head. “H-hey,” she says. “Sit;” and she indicates the chair with a nod of her head.

Faith sits hurriedly. The chair scrapes on the floor as she pulls it closer to the table. “Willow.” Willow looks slightly dismayed, as if she had hoped Faith had not really known who she was. Faith can’t for the life of her imagine why; Willow must be so glad she was found! 

“Hi, Faith,” Willow says. She speaks normally, but there is something about her accent that sounds like she is talking slowly—deliberately. Willow looks down at her hands, which are lying on the table on top of each other. Her nails are long and smooth and oval. Lovely.

“Where…” Faith trails off, and pauses.

“Where have I been?” Willow asks for her absently. “SomePlace Else. It was very relaxing.” She looks directly at Faith now. “Faith, you do know you can’t tell anybody that you’ve seen me, right?”

Faith looks shocked. “What? But everybody’s been so worried about you!”

“Everybody,” Willow repeats faintly.

“Oh, yes,” Faith says eagerly. “B and Xander and Anya and Giles, and Cordy and Wes and Angel and Spike.” She pauses again. “And me, of course. And even Gunn, and Fred.” She leans in closer, smiling. Willow can’t help but lean forward too, as if they are sharing a secret. “And Oz most of all,” Faith finishes triumphantly.

Willow jerks backwards as if she’s been slapped. “H-he has, huh?” she says.

Faith looks hurt. She does not know what is wrong, but knows that there is definitely something… off. “What’s wrong, Willow?” she says.

Willow sighs. What a loaded question. Instead, she answers: “You really, really can’t tell anyone, Faith.”

Faith shakes her head. “Why not? They’ll all be so happy to see you.”

Willow thinks of all of the books on controlling back on her shelf in her apartment and shudders at all the things she’s learnt. “But I may not be so happy to see them,” she says without thinking, and sighs.

Faith frowns. “Willow, at least come and see Spike so he’ll know you’re all right.”

Willow laughs. The sound is bitter. “Why would Spike care about me?”

Faith rolls her eyes. “Or… call Oz, or something.”

The shadows that crawl behind Willow’s haunted eyes start throwing a party, and Willow looks like she’s about to panic. “Oh, no,” she says. “That’s the last thing I’ll do.”

Faith is about to protest, but Willow holds up a hand. “Faith, if you don’t swear not to tell anyone and mean it, I can just cast a memory reduction spell on you so you won’t remember seeing me at all.”

Faith grimaces. “Why don’t you just?”

Willow makes a similar face. “Faith, what do you want from me? I can pay you…”

“No!” Faith says, shocked. “No! Willow, I’m not trying to get anything from you. I just want to help.”

“If you want to help, then you’ll leave me alone and you won’t tell anyone you saw me,” Willow tells her solemnly, and gets up from the table, slinging her bag over her shoulder. Then she pauses, and takes a pen and paper out of her bag. “If you need extra convincing, or something, come here,” Willow says tiredly, writing down her address. “But please, please don’t bring Angel or anyone here. All you’ll be doing is hurting me.”

Then she leaves.

September 30^th, 2007; location unknown

Willow and Greg start walking.

They walk across the field until they are eventually on a road. A road, for cars, with a long yellow line stretching to infinity in the middle of it. Willow resists the urge to kiss the black tar and instead follows Greg along the side of the highway.

The road is framed by autumn. The trees are a burst of color, a great many still green but the rest flaming orange and red and yellow, with splashes of neon and brown. 

They turn of the road and cross a sturdy wooden bridge with iron posts across a shallow river. The water splashes enthusiastically against the rocks and foam flies into the air. There is a crisp breeze, and Willow’s cheeks are a ruddy red with the chill. She does not wear her tunic of the past several months, which only reaches to her knees; she wears soft leather leggings and a long dress that comes down to her ankles. It has long sleeves—rather, they are too long, and reach to her knuckles—and slits up the sides to her thighs to ease her movements.

The path that they take once they are off of the bridge is wide and distinct and covered with a carpet of wet leaves. They are walking down a neverending corridor of these trees that stretch up into the sky. The breeze rustles the crunchy leaves still in the trees. It sounds like the river they have just crossed, a river all around them, on and on forever.

Greg walks on ahead, leaving Willow to step slowly, reverently, down the tree-guarded avenue. It is beautiful, it is spectacular, it seems almost holy; Willow has never seen anything like it. Southern California is not known for its chilly autumns.

Another footpath curves away from the main trail; Willow can see Greg’s backpack through the trees, so she follows the smaller path. It begins to curve upward gently. Willow peers up towards the trees and catches a glimpse of clear blue sky.

It begins to snow lightly, covering Willow’s hair in a delicate veil, and for the first time in a long time, Willow grins.

June 26^th, 2008; Los Angeles, California

The chimes on the door sound, and Willow looks up from her perch on the stool behind the counter to see Faith step into the shop. It is hard to force down her dread and keep a calm façade; Willow’s paranoia of being found has increased tenfold in the week since she saw Faith at the Starbucks, and it is beginning to look as if that paranoia was not ill-founded.

Faith walks gently across the polished wood floor, looking about herself curiously. There is a wide space in the middle of the shop, and that is framed by soft velvet armchairs; behind the armchairs are the display shelves, and against the walls are the glass-windowed cabinets, holding some of the more delicate items.

Willow can tell the moment Faith catches sight of the shelf containing the varied Orbs of Thesulah; her stance stiffens, and she seems to remember where she is and why. The Slayer looks up, and walks straight towards the counter at the back of the shop.

Willow twists her long hair into a swift braid and shrugs it over her shoulder, preparing herself to match wills with Faith. The other woman’s greeting is unexpected.

“I did some research on the shop once I realized that this address was for a storefront,” Faith says; “All of the Egroup postings and newspaper articles said you made some really nice tea.”

Willow is surprised but ready with an answer. “Since it’s summer, we don’t make Giles-style tea here anymore,” she replies. Faith’s smile fades. “But we’ve got some iced.”

The smile reappears, and Willow reaches under the counter into the mini-refrigerator there to draw out a pitcher of fresh mint iced tea.

Faith pulls two mugs over to them from the other side of the counter and holds them still as Willow pours.

As they sip their tea, Willow reflects on how strange it is that Giles really was right about how relaxing tea can be. The two of us are afraid of each other, Willow thinks, but here we are drinking tea together.

Faith finishes her tea first and puts her mug down gently. Her fingernails are painted dark red, a few shades lighter than Willow’s hair. Willow raises her mug to her lips for one last sip, and then puts that down next to Faith’s, preparing herself for whatever it is the Slayer will say.

“Um…” Faith hesitates. “I’ve thought a lot since last week, and I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Willow is surprised. Sorry for what?

“I guess that your being here is your business, not mine, and I’m sorry if I freaked you out. I won’t tell anybody you’re here,” Faith elaborates.

Willow exhales, and realizes she has been holding her breath. Faith will not tell Oz that she is here, and she will continue to be safe.

“I was just wondering if we could hang out,” Faith says in a whoosh of words.

Willow looks up, green eyes wide. Faith wants to hang out? With me?

Faith is looking straight at her. Her face twists in embarrassment. “I mean, if you had free time, and you wanted to, like, go to a club or something…” Her voice trails off.

Willow considers this. 

She has not had a real friend since 10^th grade, in the beginning of the year before Buffy came. Amy and Xander and Jesse were her confidantes, her playmates, her homies, since forever, but til never. Amy, though deratted, had left for less Hellmouthy places; Jesse, of course, was dead; and Xander was now beyond her reach.

It might be nice to have a friend, though Willow hadn’t the slightest idea what she’d do with one.

Faith was still looking uncertain, and Willow hastens to reassure her. “I’d love to hang out sometime,” Willow says warmly. “Want some more iced tea?”

September 30^th, 2007; location unknown

Greg is far ahead of her on the trail, so far ahead Willow feels no need to try and catch up. She has picked up a sturdy branch to help push her along, as the trail has become very windy and steep, with rocks hidden under damp leaves. The mud and plants squish beneath her bare toes, and the long hem of Willow’s tunic-dress and pants are soggy.

It is beautiful. The snow continues to spiral leisurely down, melting as soon as it touches the ground. Perspiration beads beneath Willow’s clothing and along her forehead, keeping her cool.

Then the snow becomes less gentle, and Willow holds a hand out to find her palm pelted persistently with tiny pellets of hail. She tosses a handful down her parched throat and shivers, continuing onward.

A flat rock face rises up before her. The path winds over to the side and becomes whisper-thin, threading through tree roots and abandoning firey fall-colored leaves for simpler dirt.

Willow places her hand on the rock for balance and feels the stone thrum with life beneath her palm. After taking a hearty drink of water from the rugged Nalgene hiking bottle Greg has provided them with, Willow hefts her staff in her left hand and follows the trail.

If she looks down behind her, Willow will see the yellow and red and orange chaos of drying leaves. She will see the barely discernable path curving back down the mountain, she will see the river gushing over rocks far, far below.

But Willow does not look down, she looks up, catching the snow-turned-hail-turned-snow on her eyelashes. Above her is only green. Evergreens sprout prickily between the cracks in the rock; sturdy tree trunks are deeply rooted in the heart of the mountain, creating a thick-limbed emerald-leafed canopy that will shield Willow from the snow and hail. Moss creeps up tree roots and over flat rocks.

The picture Willow will walk into is a watercolor from her long-lost fairy books of her childhood, the ones she read to herself curled up against her pillows. She can almost see the diamond drops of dew on every twig.

Willow smiles and continues to climb.

July 2^nd, 2008; Los Angeles, California

Faith and Willow contemplate for a generous amount of time what, exactly, ‘hanging out’ should consist of. Willow has not ‘hung out’ with anyone except her familiars and Greg for what seems like centuries, and Faith has never truly ‘hung out’ at all, so they are at a loss.

Oboe pokes her head up from behind the counter, startling Faith. Go shopping, she advises.

“Good idea,” Willow commends her.

“What?” Faith asks.

“Oboe said we should go shopping,” Willow says, not bothering to explain further. “And we should do something. We set up a date for hanging out, but all we’ve done is contemplate what we could do. If we continue at this rate, we’ll never go anywhere.”

Faith smiles faintly. “True. But, um, is there anything we could do besides… major money-spending? Like, a movie or something? ‘Cause I’m kinda low on cash…”

Willow frowns. Faith certainly doesn’t look the part, but why would she lie? Willow decides it’s none of her business but asks anyway. “Sure,” she replies in answer to Faith’s request, “But why low on cash? Is the Starbucks your only job?” If that’s true, Willow reflects, No wonder Faith’s low on cash. Starbucks is a low-paying highschool job…

Faith lowers her head. “Um, yeah, kind of. And me and Angel have this thing worked out where he’ll pay for my expenses for a month, to help me get started again, but then I’m on my own, so I’m trying to save up…”

Willow blinks. Faith has only just gotten out of prison? Willow expected her to be more hardened somehow, more… ‘grrr’, but Faith seems, if anything, far more lighthearted than the first time she and Willow met, in senior year. “What are the conditions of this agreement?” Willow asks curiously.

Faith takes a sip of her iced tea. “Um, well, right now I’m living in a hotel. I mean, it’s a nice one and everything, but it’s not mine, you know? And part of the agreement is I have to find my own apartment and pay for the rent myself. It’s fair,” Faith says thoughtfully; “I mean, it makes sense. Most twenty-six-year-olds can afford their own apartments. And I don’t think that Angel wouldn’t help me out if I didn’t meet the deadline, it’s just… I think he’d be so disappointed.”

Willow has a sneaking idea coming to her mind, a very well-meaning, sneaking idea that is creeping up inside her brain and beginning to make sense. “When,” she begins hesitantly, “is the month up?”

Faith sighs heavily, having no clue what Willow is plotting. “In about a week and a half,” she says. “I’ve got a job, but it’s not great, believe me, and I haven’t found any presentable apartments yet, even though I’ve looked everywhere.”

“Faith,” Willow says, apprehensively, slowly, “How would you feel about moving in with me?”

Faith’s head shoots up. Her eyes are panicked. “Oh, no, Willow,” she says. Her words pour forth at a confused speed to rival Willow at her most dreidl-esque. “I wasn’t asking—I wasn’t hinting that—Oh, no, I didn’t mean—"

“I know,” Willow assures her; “It’s just—It wouldn’t be for free,” she explains. “You could do some hours here, in the shop, and we’ll figure out how much will sort of equal your rent. But don’t you see?” she half-begs, “It could be so much fun! And we’d never run out of space, because I know an expansion spell that I can tailor to the apartment, so if you’ll just give me til Tuesday, I can make some extra room and tidy up back there…”

Faith is looking at her like she’s crazy.

“Oh,” Willow continues, “We could… ‘hang out’ all the time, and I think you’d like my familiars, I really do, and the shop is so much fun, and I could introduce you to Greg, maybe, and we’d be able to go shopping because we’d both have enough money…” She trails off at last, having run out of air, and raises her eyes ever so slowly to meet the Slayer’s.

Faith’s face is stretched into an enormous grin, and her chocolate eyes are sparkling, and she is tensed with enthusiasm. “Oh, Willow, I’d love to,” she assures her eagerly, and then they both laugh with relief.

September 30^th, 2007; location unknown

Willow pads gently across the moss that carpets the forest floor, having abandoned her climbing-stick what seems like ages ago. She has completely lost sight of Greg, perhaps even forgotten about him, but the trail winds lazily onwards in front of her, climbing a little as she goes farther.

Willow tries to imagine what she looks like, but cannot even remember her own face; she has not looked in a mirror since… since before she came to Greg. Normally she would be filled with a sense of alarm, but here on this trail it is impossible to feel anything but flushed, and a little chilled, and calm and happy. All Willow can conjure in her mind is of a white, snow-clad figure, blurred in outline and height and detail, gently ascending a mountain in the sunlight.

Just as sunlight enters her mind, the same bursts through the trees ahead of her and Willow can see the flat surface of the top of the mountain. With a whoop, she charges ahead, her Nalgene water-bottle clanking at her waist, and emerges into the blazing light with her arms outstretched.

She can see a dark figure across the landscape; Greg, apparently, has already found a place to sit and have lunch. 

Willow walks into the center of the sunlight and twirls around like a dreidl, in faster and faster circles until she is nothing but a blur. The wind she creates whips the hood of her tunic-dress around and whistles in her ears, and she slows to a contented stop as the sound of Greg’s hearty laughter brings her back.

She bounds across the rock to flop down right next to him in the intense light, ignoring the water-bottle full of blood that Greg is steadily chugging. Willow shrugs out of her knapsack and shoves it behind her head to use as a pillow. She settles back and closes her eyes, and the two of them sit in silence for almost a half hour before Willow asks, “Greg, how come you can sit in the sunlight?”

Even with her eyes closed, Willow can see Greg’s lips twitch at her own contagious happiness. “Just a gift from the Goddess, I guess,” he answers. Willow has never noticed how deep his voice is before. The house they live in makes everything lighter, somehow. Out here, Greg’s bass tone is so full and deep Willow imagines she can hear it rumbling through the rock.

Greg fumbles in his own pack for Willow’s lunch: a Tupperware container full of pork-stuffed tofu, rice, and cauliflower (Willow had deemed it unnecessary to keep kosher while in a completely un-Jewish setting). He sets it on her stomach and stands up.

Willow almost doesn’t notice his rising, but his immense figure blocks the sun and casts a shadow over her torso. She squints her eyes. “Greg?”

He looks down at her, frowns a little. “I’m going back down,” Greg says, “But it’s not your turn yet. Come down when you’re ready.” Then, in a manner reminiscent of Vampire-Angel or Spike, Greg is gone.

Willow does have to commend him for slipping off into shadows that aren’t even there, though she resents his being so cryptic.

***

Willow stays at the top of the mountain for six days and six nights.

The first day is the day Greg left her. It remains sunny and warm enough, though she does not take off her tunic-dress.

The second day is misty and cooler, and Willow spends that day finishing her tofu lunch and wandering around the top of the mountain, peering off into the clouds of fog that obscure the horizon.

On the third and fourth days, it hails. Willow awakens on the third day to small pellets smacking her side, and falls asleep to the same, huddled under a warm blanket that Greg had packed in her knapsack.

The fifth day is mist again, and on the sixth day it is blessedly warm, and Willow, tired and hungry but nonetheless extremely proud of herself, lies spread-eagle in the sun, sleeping, and mulling over in her dreams a cornucopia of jumbled things: Oz, knots, magic, music, Xander, slaying, Buffy, Greg, Fiddle and Timpani and Oboe waiting for her with Greg and Marmalade at the bottom of the mountain, hail, tofu, the number forty-two, chenille sweaters, and ultimately back to Oz again.

But she does not cry and she does not scream in the midst of her dreams, and awakens on the seventh morning with a feeling of extreme contentment.

On the seventh morning, Willow picks herself up off the rock and packs the Tupperware container and the blanket back into her knapsack. Then she fastens her Nalgene water-bottle to her waist and goes to the path at the other side of the mountain.

Soon enough she has found a walking-stick and is gingerly picking her way down the steep trail. It dips and swerves and disappears into the underbrush and then goes abruptly up again and the sky has somehow begun to produce more snow, but Willow exhales in a cloud of white smoke and reaches the bottom of the mountain still smiling.

***

Willow wakes up on the eighth day back at home in her warm bed in Greg’s house. Fiddle and Timpani and Oboe are curled up on her pillow around her face, and she can feel three cool spots on her cheeks and forehead where their noses rest.

She can just remember finally stumbling in through the front door, Greg taking her bag and quickly feeding her some warm soup, and then bundling her into bed.

Well, her hunger and tiredness is sated, but Willow feels extremely grimy, and when she tries to run a hand through her quickly growing hair, she discovers that she is precisely right. Her hair is a mess of leaves and tangles, and she doesn’t doubt that she has mud in places that she didn’t even know existed.

Willow rises gently from the bed and pauses to watch her three familiars snuggle together again in the spot she has just left. Then she pulls the knobless door open with her thoughts and follows the brightly sunlit hall to the bathroom at the end.

Greg’s house is like a dream. The bathroom alone was enough to make Willow swoon the first time she saw it.

It is huge and warm, with a high ceiling and wide windows near the ceiling itself. The sun, therefore, pours in and lights up every single corner of the room. There are heavy curtains at each wall to pull over the windows, and small sconces and tables and stands all over the room for candles. There is a cabinet full of scented candles in all shapes and sizes, and there is a whole wall draped in heavy dark blue velvet that shimmers in the light.

There is a shiny white sink with a rack of soft fluffy towels, and then there is the bathtub. If Willow didn’t think she’d feel ridiculous, she might sleep in that bathtub. There are small chambers in the sides of the tub that keep the water perpetually hot, and the tub is wide and long and deep enough to fit three people comfortably. There is, of course, just Willow, so she has enough room to swim a little. 

A second look at the bathtub informs her that yes, Greg really did fill it up for her, perhaps even last night, as the water is kept hot. With a sigh of relief, she slips out of her leggings and tunic-dress and abandons the muddy clothes in a hamper by the door. Then, without the slightest hesitation, Willow slips into the tub and thanks Greg for having the kindness to run the water for her ahead of time. He knows her through and through, perhaps better than she knows herself.

That is a slightly weird thought, and Willow shivers and banishes it from her mind, picking up the soft loofa on the side of the tub and soaking it.

Willow has perfected the art of washing herself thoroughly without ever having to look at her body.

It is a strange thing to want to do; before…Oz, she never cared much about how she looked, but did examine her slender shape in the mirror with a critical eye once in a while. When she was with Oz, Willow nearly obsessed over her looks, hoping every new day that she’d be attractive enough to warrant his attentions.

It is no use thinking that hindsight is 20/20.

But now Willow does not want to see herself at all. Perhaps it is the scars that she knows are on her body—on her stomach, breasts, arms, legs…--or perhaps it is her almost religious belief that everything Oz had ever told her was a lie. Oz had told her she was beautiful, every once in a while, but she does not think that he ever spoke the truth, not after he left after Veruca and came back again.

Either way, Willow scrubs her arms and legs and torso and face without looking at her skin, and soaks and lathers her long, thick hair without seeing it. Willow does not entertain any ideas about how she must look, does not doubt that she looks anything else more than a little more worn around the edges since the last time she looked.

Willow flips her thick mane of hair back, showering the floor with heavy drops of rose-scented water, and sits up again, leaning against the side of the tub. She sighs, relaxing into the steaming water, and props her feet up against the other side of the tub. She very carefully does not look at her wiggling toes, but directs her vision elsewhere—

--And freezes. 

There was just movement out of the corner of her eye, but it has stopped.

Willow untenses just slightly, wiggles her toes again, and freezes. That movement, what isit? Willow scans the velvet-draped wall, seeing nothing, and then gasps.

The velvet drape is covering a mirror. It has come unfastened, and it is the movement of her feet that she sees reflected in the two exposed inches of glass.

Willow is having trouble breathing. 

Greg doesn’t keep any mirrors around, because he has no reflection and Willow likes to pretend she doesn’t have one. But here, in her sanctuary, across from her bathtub, is a huge mirror. Willow can see that the glass must cover the whole wall.

Perhaps a month ago Willow would have leapt from the tub, fastened the drapes again, and fled back to her room faster than a dreidl could spin, but after the six days and six nights she spent on that mountain, she isn’t so sure.

I have slept through hail, Willow thinks; I have seen through fog and walked through fairyland. I have gone four days without eating, and I have dreamt my nightmares peacefully, but the one thing that scares me the most is my own reflection.

That does it.

Willow rises slowly in the tub and climbs out on her hands and knees. 

She pushes herself onto her feet, groaning slightly as aching muscles stretch, and walks towards the dark blue drape.

As she reaches out to expose the glass, she looks at her hand, and sees that the fingers are long and slender, the nails nicely rounded and smooth, and the back of her hand tanned and muscled. 

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